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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25757155">haunted mansion</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/textbookchoices/pseuds/textbookchoices'>textbookchoices</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Flash (TV 2014)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Case Fic, Desk Sex, F/F, Frottage, Ghosts, Hijinks &amp; Shenanigans</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 04:41:42</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,457</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25757155</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/textbookchoices/pseuds/textbookchoices</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Oddly enough, when they reach the top landing, Christine feels--something. Something cold, like a shiver racing up her spine. </p>
<p>She glances around, but shrugs it off. </p>
<p>Ghosts, really. She doesn't believe in ghosts.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Christine Everhart/Iris West</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Battleship 2020, Battleship 2020 - Red Team</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>haunted mansion</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElasticElla/gifts">ElasticElla</a>.</li>



    </ul></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Christine drops her case, sighing at the dreary, dusty old room that looks like it hasn't been touched by anyone in a hundred years other than a few rats, spiders and, according to her editor--who has to be punishing her for that last article she published on Stark Industries, there's no other explanation for this horrid assignment--a ghost or two.</p>
<p>Great.</p>
<p>She's supposed to be meeting another reporter from Central City to put a spin on the "ghost story of the century" for the October edition of the magazine her editor is oh-so-recently trying to turn into a wide-spread fun source for strange news--as if superheroes, aliens and robots set on world domination aren't strange enough for their readers these days.</p>
<p>Which, alright, her editor might have a point about that, but God, a "haunted mansion" investigation for a story, really? Her editor needs to get his ass off of BuzzFeed and into the writing room again.</p>
<p>She can't believe she has to do this.</p>
<p>The loud, squeak of the front door opening, and then a "Hello?" comes from the front parlor.</p>
<p>Oh, and look at that: her partner in story crime has apparently just arrived and walked in the room. Christine spins around, a less-than-inspired smile plastered across her face. "If it isn't Iris West," she says, and Iris--presumably--smiles and drops her suitcase next to Christine's on the--ugh, Christine nearly shudders--dirty, grime-covered floor.</p>
<p>Disgusting.</p>
<p>"Hey," Iris says, "you must be Christine Everhart from Vanity Fair? It's nice to meet you."</p>
<p>Well, Christine will take the introduction. She shakes Iris' hand, noting the softness of her palm despite the strength of her grip, and she grins. </p>
<p>"So, our ghosts, what do you think--interior decorators?"</p>
<p>Iris laughs and says, "I certainly hope not. Is there anywhere in this place that's been dusted in the last century?" She touches a blanket lying across the back of an old armchair, and dust literally flies off of it, making them both cough.</p>
<p>"You're friends with the Flash, aren't you?" Christine asks, through the coughs.</p>
<p>"I wouldn't say friends exactly."</p>
<p>"Any chance you could get him to come dust the place for us? He could do it in two seconds, couldn't he?"</p>
<p>Iris chuckles and says, "I wish he would. Between you and me, I'm pretty sure super speed doesn't help get men to clean up after themselves."</p>
<p>Christine lets out a surprised laugh, but hey. She tried, and Iris hasn't lied yet.</p>
<p>"Well, what do you say we explore then?" Iris suggests, and Christine sighs but digs out her phone to turn on the video and audio recorder, the same as Iris is doing. Ghosts or no ghosts, they're going to have to find something to write about this weekend.</p>
<p>Besides, she's a reporter: she can get messy, even if she does have to take five showers afterward.</p>
<p>The downstairs--three parlors, a bathroom better not spoken of, a library that might be worth looking at some more, a kitchen that nobody is going to be eating out of anytime soon, a dining room that looks like the last people there were teenagers obsessed with ghosts and fortune telling based on the tarot cards, dollar store candles and crystal ball abandoned on the table, and a door that led, presumably to a basement and-or wine cellar that was locked--revealed nothing particularly inspiring for a story.</p>
<p>The stairs creak as they go up, and after the second lurch of a step, they both look at each other and silently agree that their heels have to go. This ghost story is not worth breaking an ankle, or a three hundred dollar pair of shoes.</p>
<p>After digging their less professional shoes out of their suitcases--and Christine is highly tempted to already ditch her pencil skirt and put on a pair of sweats and sports bra--they head up the stairs again. Oddly enough, when they reach the top landing, Christine feels--something.</p>
<p>Something cold, like a shiver racing up her spine. </p>
<p>She glances around, but shrugs it off. </p>
<p>Ghosts, really. She doesn't believe in ghosts, of all things.</p>
<p>The first room they search is an office: there's a bookshelf, an ornate desk with a chair that's had the stuffing ripped out of it and, several broken, empty picture frames scattered around the room.</p>
<p>This old mansion used to belong to a rather affluent family in the early 1900s; they'd all died of natural causes, so they can't even run the angle of solving a long lost murder mystery. Not for the second--or fifteenth--time, Christine wonders why her editor is such a jackass.</p>
<p>"Look at this," Iris says, picking a necklace up off of a glass tray next to a case of old tumblers and glasses for drinking while in the office--as classic as you can get, obviously. It's a pretty thing, golden, and has a picture of a woman on the inside.</p>
<p>Christine hums and they take a picture before putting it back down.</p>
<p>Eventually, they explore every room, even the room at the very end of the left hall that's as cold as fucking ice despite the window being very obviously long-since sealed shut, presumably to keep out the cold. It was clearly a woman's room, the small bed made up in faded, pale pink with old, stuffed animals lying around like a creepy scene from a horror movie.</p>
<p>She and Iris silently agree not to spend much time in there.</p>
<p>"Well," Christine says, "that was illuminating. Won't this be a fantastic story to write? It's not like we don't both have superheroes back in the cities we actually live in."</p>
<p>Iris sighs, but shrugs, clearly more resigned to this than Christine is.</p>
<p>"I'm still earning my keep, I suppose. Getting to write a story with you is actually a bit of an opportunity for me."</p>
<p>"Flattery will get you everywhere," Christine murmurs, approaching a side table in the hall. When they'd passed it earlier, she'd been sure that it had been empty--cleared out by thieves, likely--but now there's a piece of paper lying there.</p>
<p>It's old, yellowed, curling at the edges. </p>
<p>In dark black letters that look--messy, as if written by a child who can't hold a pen correctly just yet--it reads GET OUT.</p>
<p>She looks at Iris. </p>
<p>Iris stares at the paper, and then looks to her. </p>
<p>"Maybe I should call the Flash after all," she says, slowly. "Unless you think our editors are trying to prank us?"</p>
<p>"If they are, I'm going to murder mine with a stiletto," Christine says, just loudly enough that anyone listening in will have no problems hearing. "Slowly."</p>
<p>The sun has long gone down now. </p>
<p>"What do you say to sharing a room?" Iris suggests. Christine agrees easily, because ghosts or not, she is not crazy about the idea of sleeping alone in a place like this. Besides, she thinks, watching Iris head down the stairs, it's hardly going to be a hardship.</p>
<p>"How do you feel about sleeping with co-workers?" Christine asks, as they get dressed for bed downstairs. She's tugged on her sweats and pulled on her sports bra, thank God, and is pulling an old band t-shirt from university over head head.</p>
<p>Iris, slipping into cotton shorts and a matching tank top that declares, Give Me Sleep or Give Me Coffee, raises an eyebrow at Christine, and then laughs. "Is that your way of asking me if I'm interested?"</p>
<p>"Could be. There are worse ways to spend a night in this dreary-as-hell place," Christine shrugs. </p>
<p>Iris seems to consider the idea for a minute, and then exhales loudly and says, "You know what? Yeah, alright. But not in any of those beds up there."</p>
<p>Christine makes a face. "Obviously." She looks around. Hm. "The desk?"</p>
<p>Iris nods. They scuttle back up the stairs, ignoring the cold draft at the top of the steps, and Christine pushes Iris up and onto the desk, knocking a few random bits-and-odds off of it to make room. Without wasting a second, she leans her body inbetween Iris spread legs--soft, thick thighs dark enough to contrast with her own pale hands as they slide up her skin, fingers digging in until the disappear beneath the hem of her shorts. She slips her mouth against Iris', grabbing her bottom lip between her teeth and tugging gently before Iris huffs a laugh and they begin kissing properly, all soft lips and hot, wet mouths.</p>
<p>Iris' moan in the old office sounds absurdly loud, and they both startle and then laugh. Christine slides a hand up Iris' tank top, running a hand smoothly over her breast and sliding her thumb against the nipple. Iris hadn't bothered with a bra at all.</p>
<p>She shoves forward with her hips, rocking into and against Iris', sighing softly at the building desire in her gut. "If nothing else," she says, "you'll make coming to this so-called haunted mansion worth it."</p>
<p>"Well," Iris says, a breathless quality to her voice already, "there's certainly that."</p>
<p>She rocks back and they form a rhythm, Christine pulling Iris forward in a proxy of fucking. Iris' hand falls back to hold herself up on the desk, moaning again when Christine squeezes at her ass through her shorts. Her skin is warm and soft, absolutely perfect. Christine smiles wickedly and gets to her knees, gently tugging the shorts down and over her hips, over her thighs and calves until they dangle on one ankle and then fall to the floor. </p>
<p>She presses Iris' legs apart and kisses softly at her inner thigh before she slides her tongue into Iris' slick folds, moaning herself at the heat and taste of the woman's cunt. God, she always seems to forget how much she loves a woman's body until she has one underneath her again, and Iris is particularly lovely in that regard--and a good reporter to boot, or will be once she has the chance to prove it. </p>
<p>Iris clutches at her hair gently, fucking forward with her hips in little desperate motions. Mm, good.</p>
<p>Suddenly, Iris slips backward.</p>
<p>They both jolt and then laugh again, until Iris stops abruptly and Christine frowns, waiting.</p>
<p>"Oh my God," Iris says, and then hops off the desk. Her hand is covered in--oh, God, is that blood?</p>
<p>"Is that blood?" Christine asks, and suddenly she doesn't care if her editor threatened to fire her, she is not interested in staying the night in a damn moldy, rat-infested horror fest like this place. There had not been blood there when they'd looked through the office earlier.</p>
<p>One look at Iris and they're in agreement--"Hotel."</p>
<p>Iris scrambles to pull her shorts back on and Christine grabs her hand to pull her down the stairs quickly. She is not wasting a single second longer in this godforsaken place--</p>
<p>Something shatters, loudly, in the kitchen.</p>
<p>Iris stumbles and looks at Christine with wide eyes.</p>
<p>And, okay--a little voice in her head is yelling, <em>"The mansion is fucking haunted, Everhart! Take Iris and get out!"</em></p>
<p>But, well, <em>reporter.</em> She's not great at listening to that little voice.</p>
<p>"We should check that out," Iris says, grabbing her phone.</p>
<p>Christine snags hers and says, "Already ahead of you."</p>
<p>Together, they slowly creep into the kitchen.</p>
<p>The old flower vase they'd seen near the window earlier is on the ground, glass everywhere. The long-dead flowers are spilled across the tiles. That would be fine, except that the flowers aren't long-dead anymore--they're vividly red, bright and fresh bloomed.</p>
<p>"Oh, God, if this place is really haunted my editor will never let me live it down," Christine mutters, and makes sure to get a good picture of the roses to compare with the picture she'd taken earlier on their first search through the house.</p>
<p>A squeal of hinges interrupts Iris' response, and they both turn in slow motion to look at the old, white door that leads, presumably, to the basement level. Christine thought there was likely a wine cellar down there, but all they can see is the dark.</p>
<p>"Should we--" she starts, and Iris nods, her face a focused expression of determination. Christine really wants to finish blowing her mind when they find themselves a damn hotel when this is all over. </p>
<p>They take a step forward, and then another, and another. </p>
<p>Together, they take the first creeping step down the rickety old wood staircase, Christine's phone held up with the flashlight on to light their way. A cold chill runs down Christine's spine, like cold water sliding down her back and a long, slow drip.</p>
<p>"What's down here, do you think?" Iris asks, suddenly.</p>
<p>Christine tells the truth: "I'm simultaneously hoping and not hoping for dead bodies. I guess we'll find out." Wouldn't that be a crazy story though? It'd almost be worth her editor's stupid little self-satisfied face twisting into a smirk.</p>
<p>"Let's go with no dead bodies," Iris mutters, and they touch down on the dirt floor of the basement. </p>
<p>Naturally, the door at the top of the stairs slams shut, and at the exact same moment, a woman with a pale face soaked in red streaks of blood screams at them with a wide, open gaping jaw. Christine and Iris scream and fall backwards. Christine instinctively thumbs on the video recorder, pointing in the direction of the--the--</p>
<p>Oh, fucking hell.</p>
<p>"Michael George Matthews, get your <em>fucking</em> ass over here right now!"</p>
<p>Her stupid fucking editor's face is in the background of the picture she'd just taken on her damn phone. </p>
<p>Michael starts cackling from somewhere, and then the lights turn on and Iris and Christine begin to blink at the sudden brightness. There's four or five of them standing there, and it's Kendra from graphic design dressed up like a goddamn dead ghost laughing so hard that she's buckled over from it.</p>
<p>Christine, angrily, reaches down and takes off one of her shoes, and throws it at Michael's goddamn face.</p>
<p>It hits him in the head, and he keeps laughing--which is hardly satisfying enough for her. </p>
<p>"I'm going to kill you, I swear to God."</p>
<p>Iris touches her shoulder, shaking her head and clutching at her heart with her other hand. </p>
<p>"I'll join you. We can dig a hole in the backyard." Ah, the other faces Christine doesn't recognize must be from Iris' news outlet in Central City.</p>
<p>"You know what, screw all of you," she says, pointing her finger at all of them. "We're leaving."</p>
<p>And with that, she drags Iris up the stairs, ignoring someone calling out, "Oh come on! You should have seen your faces!"</p>
<p>They're going to a damn hotel.</p>
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